Just Too Good to Be True

by E. Lynn Harris

  After everybody woke up this morning, the day moved like a dizzying blur. We were all in our warm-ups, out of the hotel, and on the bus, driving toward campus, before it seemed we had fully awakened.

  Some of the guys on the bus were joking, laughing, and roughhousing with one another. Others were off in their own little worlds, their skullcaps pulled low over their eyes, foreheads pressed against the windows, staring at all that passed us by for the last time.

  I was somewhere in between.

  Delmar was up out of the seat he shared with me, traipsing up and down the isle, talking to everybody like he was hosting a party. I had my iPod on, my hood over my head, staring out the window. I was listening to the new Lyfe Jennings joint, trying to hold at bay the thoughts I feared would surface sooner or later. It would be a hard day, but I kept telling myself to just stay focused.

  We could see the hordes of people tailgating in the parking lot, wearing school colors, barbecuing, drinking, and dancing around the cars and trucks that crowded into every space. Some people even danced on the roofs of their cars and trucks.

  “Look at all those fools out there, getting crunk for us,” Delmar said.

  “It’s like they’re having a party!” Rojo, the skinny redheaded punter, said.

  When the bus pulled to a stop in front of the stadium, so many fans crowded the bus that security had to push through and make a path so the team could get off and head to the locker room.

  As we made our way through the people, they grabbed us, held signs, and yelled our names. I saw signs that people had made for me that read, “We LUV YOU B.B.!!!” and “BLEDSOE, DON’T GO.” I smiled and shook the hands of some of the fans.

  Once we were inside, Delmar said, “Man, you hear all those women out there yellin’ my name? Usher ain’t got shit on me! I thought they was about to start tossin’ panties, fool!”

  All of the team members were feeling themselves, thinking that the insane crowd out there was just for them, until Coach walked in and said, “All right, everybody settle down. You got a taste of the pandemonium going on out there and now you all think you’re Elvis. But have you all forgotten that there’s a hell of a team out there in Georgia Tech, waiting to whoop knots on your heads? Suit up, get out there, focus on the game, and then we can talk about making school history and reservations in Dallas. You hear me?”

  “Yeah, Coach,” the entire team answered.

  “I said, did you men hear me!” he yelled.

  “Yes, Coach!” the entire team roared back.

  “Good,” Coach said. He stood around for a moment longer, looking at some of us dead in our eyes, then he said, “And congratulations to you seniors. We’re all going to miss you around here.”

  After Coach left, there was no more laughing and joking. Everyone dressed quietly, caught in their own thoughts. Everyone except me. I thought about my running plays, I visualized carrying the ball for three hundred yards, anything to keep those thoughts of Barrett and my fighting with my mother from getting into my head.

  When I looked up again, everyone was dressed and leaving the locker room, and Delmar was pulling me by the jersey.

  “Yo, you ready?”

  I looked up at him, about to pull my helmet off the top of my locker, and said, “Yeah, I’m cool. I’ll be out in a second. Just let me lock up.”

  “Don’t take all day. You know we can’t start this party without you.”

  I grabbed my helmet, slammed my locker door, and then it all just hit me like a kick in the stomach. I had no choice but to lower myself onto the bench in front of my locker. The entire locker room was empty, and quiet except for the echo of shower drops hitting the cement floor.

  I looked at my locker, saw the piece of tape that Coach had put there four years earlier and on which he had written my name. I thought about all the times I’d spent in this room, in this very spot, both good and bad. I saw the smiling faces of my teammates, heard their laughter, the jokes we all told, and realized only now that those things would never happen again. At least not here, because it was Senior Day—the end of it all.

  I grabbed my helmet and stood. My knees felt wobbly as I walked out of the locker room, because I had thought of this day so many times in the past and it was turning out nothing like I had hoped.

  My mother was supposed to be here. But she wasn’t.

  I hoped I was doing the right thing by not talking to her, by avoiding her calls. I told myself I was teaching her a lesson, I thought as I stepped out of the tunnel and onto the field, but the only person that was being punished was me.

  The stands were as full as I’ve ever seen them. The fans were all screaming at the top of their lungs, waving signs, dancing to “Money Maker” by Ludacris, which was banging out of the loudspeakers.

  I tried to stop myself from looking up at my mother’s seat, but I couldn’t. She wasn’t there, and that made me feel worse.

  Coach gathered us all for pregame drills. We warmed up by doing jumping jacks, some stretches, some screen passes, and then it was time for the parents and seniors to meet in the middle of the field.

  A line of senior players formed, waiting to greet our parents, receive a commemorative ball from Coach, and then have a picture taken.

  I leaned a little out of line, like the rest of the players, to see Reggie, the linebacker, hugging his mother and taking a picture with Coach.

  That wouldn’t happen with me. My mother wouldn’t be here, and only now could I admit to myself why. She had told me to stay away from Barrett, but I didn’t listen. I got caught up in the love I thought I had for her, got turned out because she opened her legs for me and I couldn’t handle it. Now my mother was missing one of the most important days of my life.

  “I’m up next,” Delmar said, nudging me with his elbow. “You know my pops will greet you when it’s your turn.”

  “Yeah, I know, but I’m cool,” I said.

  “You know we family anyway. You’re my brother.”

  “It’s cool, Delmar, and that means the world to me,” I said as I placed a hand on his shoulder pad. “Do your thang, fam.”

  He stepped onto the field, hugged his father, received the ball from Coach, and then I saw a tear come to his eyes. He was so happy, and his father looked so proud of him. They had talked about this day for a long time, just like me and my mother had.

  I continued to watch, knowing I would soon be heading to the field, alone. I couldn’t do it. My mother was supposed to be here with me. If it weren’t for her, none of this would be happening.

  As I walk from the sideline to the middle of the field to meet Coach Hale, my mind starts to torment me over the mess I’ve made of my life. I looked up at the motionless clouds that dotted a steady blue sky and it was so beautiful.

  When I reached Coach Hale he was holding the football. He looked at me and asked, “Brady, where is your mother?”

  “It’s a long story, Coach,” I said sadly.

  “Okay,” Coach Hale said quietly. “Thanks for four great years, son,” he added as he rubbed my shoulders gently and handed me the commemorative football.

  “No, thank you, Coach,” I said, fighting back tears.

  When I left the field I found myself turning, and running as fast as I could back into the locker room.

  When I got there, I threw open my locker, dug out my cell phone, and dialed my mother’s number. I got her voice mail on every one of her numbers, but I left her a message saying, “Ma, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for how I treated you. If it’s not too late, can you come today?” Tears started down my face. “It doesn’t matter if you miss the game. We can go to dinner after, have fun, do how we always dreamed we were going to do on this day. Please, Ma. Okay.”

  I hung up, knowing she wouldn’t get the message until it was too late, and that even if she did, she wouldn’t come because she was disappointed with me. I felt like I didn’t even want to play anymore.

  I walked out onto the field with my head held low, toward the sidel
ines to get ready to meet Coach Hale.

  I walked past people, not looking them in their faces, wondering what I would do after the game without my mother, when I heard someone say, “Brady.”

  When I spun around, I was shocked to see my mother, standing there, holding her arms out to me, tears in her eyes. I ran so fast to grab her that I almost knocked her down.

  “I’m sorry, Ma,” I said, crying. “For everything.”

  “Me, too, baby,” she said as she tried to wipe the tears from my cheeks.

  When we separated, I noticed a man standing beside her, smiling, staring at me.

  I looked back at him and there was a familiarity about his face.

  “Brady,” my mother said. “This is someone I think you should know.”

  Then my mother started crying uncontrollably and I tried to console her.

  The man came closer, extended his hand, and said, “Brady. My name is Woodson. I’m your father.”

  I felt my knees buckle, and it took all of my power to remain standing.

  “What?” I asked as I looked at him and then back at my mother. She wiped her tearstained face and shook her head in affirmation.

  Just as I was going to ask them both if this was true, Coach Hale barked out my name, “Bledsoe, git your ass in my office now.”

  I looked at my mother, shook my head, and darted toward the athletic complex.

  I walked toward the coaches’ office carrying my helmet, wondering what could be so important that Coach needed to speak to me now. Kickoff was less than fifteen minutes away. I knocked on his door and heard him tell me to come in. When I walked in, I discovered why he couldn’t wait. Sitting in a chair across from Coach was Nico, grinning arrogantly.

  “Brady, have a seat. This man tells me he has some information about you that would make me keep you out of the final games. Is that true?”

  “Yeah, Brady, tell him what we’ve been up to,” Nico said. He opened up a leather binder, pulled out some papers, and put them on Coach’s desk. Suddenly, his phone rang. Nico looked down at his cell and said, “I need to take this.”

  “We don’t have much time, Mr. Benson. If you’ve got something I need to know, then put up or shut up,” Coach said.

  “What do you want, bitch?” Nico shouted into his phone. “I’m conducting business.” Nico’s eyes suddenly grew larger and he continued his shouting. “What kind of book? Don’t threaten me, Raquel. You know I can have you silenced forever. And what do you know about Basil Henderson, and what does he have to do with me? Hey, let’s deal with this now. Where are you? Raquel!”

  Coach and I exchanged glances like we were dealing with a man straight wildin’. Nico slammed his phone shut, grabbed his papers and binders, and just as he bolted from his chair another man, dressed in a nice suit, walked into the office.

  “Sorry to bother you, Coach Hale, but I heard there might be a little trouble here.”

  Coach Hale got up and extended his hands. “Basil, good to see you. Where did you hear that from?”

  “Motherfucker, what are you doing here?” Nico asked.

  “Looking out for a young man who you’re trying to screw over,” Basil said.

  “You got me confused with yourself. You’re the one who likes to screw over, or shall I say screw, young dudes. Does the good coach know that?”

  “Dude, move on and get out of my face. I think you need to be getting ready for your meeting with the Securities Exchange Commission to explain all the fake stocks you sold your clients,” Basil Henderson said.

  Then he walked over to me and said, “Brady Bledsoe, it’s so nice to meet you. I wish it would have been under better circumstances. Your mother is a lovely woman who loves you a lot.”

  “Yes, sir, I know that. Thank you,” I said.

  “Coach, I just want you to know that your top player here has become the victim of this slime who passes himself off as an agent. But he’s just a crook, and in a few days the entire sports world will know,” Basil said.

  “So it’s safe for me to play Brady today?” Coach Hale said.

  “Without a doubt,” Basil said.

  Coach looked at me, smiled, and said, “You hear that, Bledsoe? All we have to do now is kick some Yellowjacket ass!”

  “Then let’s do it,” I said as my coach and I trotted out of the office and down to the field.

  For me, the game was filled with firsts and finales. It was the first game I rushed for over 300 yards. I shredded the Georgia Tech defense for 322 of them, not only a school record but an SEC mark as well. I felt elevated by the crowd, and as I ran, I felt as though my feet never touched the ground. We crushed the Yellowjacks by a score of 28–7.

  When I closed my locker, I knew it was for the final time and was painfully aware that some freshman would be calling the locker his next season. It would be the first and last game my father would see me play at Jaguar stadium. But we still had a game in Nashville and now a bowl game in Dallas, and I hoped he would come.

  I walked out of the dressing room into a throng of well-wishers and autograph-seeking fans. When I spotted my mother, she was surrounded by three men. There was Lowell, my father, and a man I’d never seen. I walked over and hugged my mom and Lowell.

  “I’m so proud of you, Brady, and I love you,” my mother whispered.

  “I love you back,” I said.

  “Great game,” Lowell said. “What a way to go out in Jaguar Stadium.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Brady, this is Mr. Sylvester Monroe,” Lowell said.

  “Nice meeting you, Brady.”

  “You, as well,” I said as I eyed Woodson, looking at me with what seemed to be pride.

  The five of us made small talk while I signed a few more autographs. Finally, Woodson came closer and put his arms around my shoulders. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.

  “I asked your mother if it would be okay if the two of us went somewhere to grab a bite to eat. Would that be okay with you?”

  I looked at him and studied his face, his eyes, his nose and lips. There was no denying how much they looked like my own. The day I had prayed for had finally come.

  “Yeah, that’s whatsup,” I said.

  “Great. We have a lot to catch up on,” he said.

  As we walked away, I looked back at my mother and the men who surrounded her. Both Lowell and Mr. Monroe had their arms on her shoulders, and she held her hand over her mouth. She was crying, but she looked like I felt. Happy.

  As I began my first walk with my father, I realized that magic happens so few times in life. As we reached my truck, I thought of the joy I felt when my mom had surprised me with the Navigator at the beginning of the season. Now she had gone out and given me the gift I’d always thought inconceivable. I guess when magic happens, dreams that once seemed impossible really can come true.

  CHAPTER

  47

  The Jock Whisperer

  Dear Diary;

  Guess what? I’m about to become famous. I’m writing a book about my dealings with Nico and the famous and not-so-famous athletes I’ve dealt with over the last ten years. A publisher who read about me in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution contacted me and then offered me a whole lot of money to tell my story. When I showed them all the entries I’d been writing, well, they increased the offer substantially. I got me an agent and a publicist, and I’m going to talk like a parrot.

  I’m going to call my book The Playbook: The Secret Diaries of a Jock Whisperer, and I think it’s going to make me rich. Finally I will be calling the shots and making enough money to take care of Wade and live the life I’ve become accustomed to.

  I guess I owe a lot to Mr. Phine-Ass John Basil Henderson. He told me about all the women and young men Nico had used. He convinced me to go to the authorities before Nico double-crossed me and I wound up in jail like some of the other women who had loved Nico and fallen prey to his schemes. He told me he knew a lawyer who could help me if I decided to go against
Nico.

  One of the first things I’m going to do is change my name back to Raquel, because it was the one thing Lita gave me that I liked. I think I’m going to move to Miami and maybe buy me a condo on the beach. It will be nice to be close to water, and I think that will be good for Wade. I guess Lita will keep her ass in New Orleans, but really that’s not my concern. She’s like a roach; nothing will kill her.

  Brady came in third for the Heisman Trophy, and I even watched it on television. Some guy named Troy Smith from Ohio State won (I’m glad Nico didn’t send me to lovely Columbus, Ohio). The guy he wanted me to go after next, Darren McFadden of Arkansas, came in second.

  Brady’s mom, who I still think is a bitch, was all smiles (but she was fly and looked good on television), and when they told the story in an interview about Brady finally meeting his father…well, it brought tears to my eyes. I’ve given up hope of ever meeting my father, since I’ve finally accepted the fact that he was just some trick my mother met on a day she forgot her birth control.

  Brady looked handsome in a black suit, and when he spoke you could tell he wasn’t your ordinary jock. He was articulate and confident. He was humble, yet strong. He gave his mother all the credit for bringing him up right and said he looked forward to forming a relationship with his father after his Cotton Bowl game. Maybe if I were closer to his age I could have found true love. But I know true love is not promised to all—only a select few. His father is handsome, and I’m sure if they’d met even before I told Brady he was alive they would have still realized the connection. They look so much alike. I’m happy for Brady and hope that he’ll find a girl worthy of him.

  I’m cooperating with the government and the Securities Exchange about Nico’s shady business deals and what he did with a lot of the money he stole from athletes. I told them about all the accounts he had in different names at banks here and abroad. His lawyer tried to threaten me by telling me all the money Nico had given me was income and therefore taxable, but my lawyer said that’s not true. What Nico gave me was a gift because I was his girlfriend, and I didn’t have to claim it. But that old low-down Nico said I was an employee and that I was never his girlfriend. I know better and so does he. So I guess we will let a judge decide. I’m just glad that I stashed away some money for days like this.